


parenthetical

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Tentabulges, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(they’re fascinated by the things that make you human: the downy hairs on your arms and legs, the coarse curls pointing down from your navel—your navel itself, and they linger over those differences like they could memorize you with fingers and lips and tongues)</p>
            </blockquote>





	parenthetical

Aradia Megido always gets home a full minute before she gets here. You’ve timed it before, gears working in your head to time the space between an unmufflered motorcycle rev and the second she walks in the door. That’s how loud her bike is. She’ll roar down the street and it’ll just get louder and louder until it finally starts echoing in the parking garage of the apartment complex. That’s twenty seconds, right there. (Knowing her, she’s just blocked your car in again.)

That gives you twenty-three whole seconds of her climbing the stairs (the elevator is for _Special Occasions_ , she told you once, and you could actually hear the uppercase and italics before Sollux made it incredibly clear what she meant with a wink that looked more like a facial tic), fourteen seconds as she walks down the hallway (it doesn’t take you as long, but then again, your legs are like twice as long as hers and you’re not trying to get a helmet over your horns while you do it), and three seconds of her key scraping in the lock (she’s never quite managed to figure out which way to turn it to unfasten the deadbolt). Forty seconds is exactly not enough time to change out of sleep pants and into real-person clothes, comb your hair, put on your shades, brush your teeth, and generally look like an actual human being instead of a couch potato.

So when Aradia finally bursts into the apartment the three of you share, there’s not much you can do to make yourself presentable. Good thing she likes you better when you’re disheveled. “Miss me?” she asks, kicking the door shut with her foot. She has her helmet (black, shellacked, with curlicues of fire painted on to show what her horns look like beneath) tucked between an elbow and a hip. To fit her head in there, not only does she have to jam the horns in, but she also has to tie her hair back—which means that every day, when she comes home from work, she treats you to an Herbal Essences commercial of cascading curls as she pulls out her elastic and shakes her hair free.

“Always,” is your monotone answer. What else were you going to do all day if she didn’t come home? Sit on your computer and Google obscure sound clips from the pilot episodes of failed sitcoms? Megido’s much more interesting than anything the Internet can throw at you. And she’s also, well. Here. In person. Wearing those shorts.

Yeah. Those shorts. The green khaki safari ones that barely contain the lush curves of her ass, right before the cuff introduces your line of sight to her thighs. Fuck, she could crush a man’s head between her gams. You silently thank the little baby Jesus and all three of his parents for casual Fridays at the museum where she works. “Is Sollux home yet?”

“Oh, I see how it is,” you say, rolling your eyes in mock-annoyance. You slump further on the couch, your MacBook resting on top of your bare stomach. “You have a half-naked man in your living room and all you want to do with him is play Twenty Questions. Not even the Tinder straight-white-boys-texting twenty questions, either. Fine, I’ll play. Are you a mineral?”

Aradia giggles. Mission accomplished. You fucking live for that sound. “I’ll take that as a no.” She kicks off her Doc Martens, starts toeing out of her socks. “Too bad,” she muses. “I might just have to take it out on you.”

“Take it out on—” You slam your laptop shut and sit up straight. “Listen, Megido, you can’t just use me as a whipping post—”

(because the first time she did that, when you were being an almighty brat, Sollux held you steady as she gave you three lashes across your bare back, stripes of pain rising to the leather’s kiss, and when the last one yoked across your shoulders you cried out and jerked forward and blew your fucking load in your pants without any kind of warning that hey, maybe you might get turned on by this whole corporal-punishment dealio)

“—without some advance notice,” you keep babbling, “a guy’s gotta toughen up before he gets a beating, and I want lotion this time, you promised.”

She’s still laughing. “Your face,” she gasps out. “Your face, holy crap,” and she has to grab onto the kitchen counter to keep from doubling over.

“Oh, that’s nice. That’s _real_ nice.” It comes out sarcastic, but you’re actually smiling. It’s always good to see Aradia this happy. “Seriously, though, take what out on me?”

“I,” she announces imperiously once she can stand up straight, “am going to take an ablution.” She bends over, takes off her other sock, and you get a magnificent view down her shirt. She’s bottom-heavy but she still has a nice rack. Nice, small, perky titties. “You,” she continues, flitting towards you, “are going to be in the respiteblock when I get out.”

God bless America. “You got something planned for me, girlie?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She kisses your forehead. “You’re my favorite human boyfriend.”

“I’m your only human boyfriend,” you grumble as she walks away. Of course, this means you get a great view of her rear as she sheds her clothes in the hallway. It’s all Hansel and Gretel up in this bitch, with her unmentionables as the bread crumbs that lead to the candy house.

Yeah, you’re in for it.

The second she shuts the door to the en suite, you bolt off the couch and get in the other bathroom. You need toothpaste. You need toothpaste _right now_. If you’re going to be doing unspeakably dirty things with your mouth, you want it clean before you start. She said _the_ respiteblock. That’s. That’s the bedroom the three of you share. This is a two bed/two bath apartment, and for the first little while you lived here, you were always in that second bedroom. A guest. But then

(after a good-spirited night of heavy drinking with friends the three of you staggered back in, fumbled with the lights, didn’t quite manage to flick the switch before your roommates were launching a two-pronged attack with their lips at your throat, delightfully sloppy and uncoordinated and you thought your heart might leap out of your chest as you reached back for his horns, forward for her hair, held in his left bracket and her right parenthesis)

you managed to squeeze a twin bed into the master, shoved it up against the queen they already had in there, and made it your communal nest. None of you has slept in the doghouse for a while now and you plan to keep it that way. Which includes not being a complete animal and observing basic hygiene.

True to her word, you’re waiting for her by the time she steps out of the shower. She’s the charcoal smear of the pad of your thumb against white sketch paper, a fingerprint you can’t quite (and don’t want to) erase and a work of art in her own right. Of course, Aradia being Aradia (and you being you), she didn’t tell you _exactly_ how she wanted you to be waiting for her, which means you’re free to take your liberties with the command and follow the letter, if not the spirit, of Megido’s law.

Right now, you’re wearing your Four Aces Suited tux (hell yeah, throwbacks) and relaxing on your giant three-person mattress amalgamation monstrosity with your hands behind your head, your legs outstretched, one crossed over the other. “How d’you do, Miss Megido,” you drawl.

“Whah, Ah nevah,” she replies in perfect Scarlett O’Hara fashion. She doesn’t drop the towel just yet, just stalks towards you; with the short scrap of fabric covering her, her legs seem about ten miles long. “You got me a present.”

“Complete with a bow.” You tug at your collar for emphasis. “Open up and start using your shiny new toy courtesy of Strider Industries, a limited liability company. Batteries not included, some assembly required, limited warranty, made in Texas.”

“I like the sound of that,” Aradia admits softly. “Just a pretty little toy.”

Your eyes trace the path of a droplet of water down the column of her throat, the valley between her rumble spheres. From here you swear you can smell her, soap and loam and smoke and fruit and spice and sweet all at once. “So get over here and use me already.”

“I’m trying to decide how I want to unwrap you.” She chews on a claw thoughtfully. “How many of your suits have I ruined by now?”

“Three.” You regret none of it. “This one only cost, like, two grist.”

“But I always like keeping the wrapping paper,” she ponders, sitting on the bed next to you.

“Then take your…” You reach out for her hip, trace terry cloth up to her chest, follow a tendril of curls to her face. Your thumbprint fits perfectly into the corner of her mouth when she smiles. The silence lingers. You guide her closer and she doesn’t pull away. The tips of your noses touch. “Time,” you whisper against her mouth, and you taste her giggles when you kiss her.

It disarms her just enough that you can get one over on her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her down into bed and rolling the two of you over so you’re propped up above her. Both her hands are in your hair, and there’s nothing holding the towel up, and there they are. When you die, lay you down to rest in a bed of Aradia Megido’s perfect rumble spheres.

(she timed it once, figured out there was always less than a two-second delay between flashing and complete incoherence on your part, so now whenever you and Sollux get into stupid nothing fights she lifts her shirt and suddenly everything is right with the universe)

You grope a firm handful of tit and she pushes her chest into your hand. When you get your mouth under her jaw, she sucks in a breath through her teeth. Her hands move down, to the collar of your shirt, then yank at the bowtie of your tuxedo. It shreds between her claws. Alas, Four Aces, you knew it well, a suit of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy (something about holding a human skull that would probably make Megido cream her pretty little panties), and it ends in scraps around your shoulders when she rakes her hands down your front.

There is something unbearably hot about being with a woman who wants you so badly she’s willing to literally tear your clothes off your body. (Literally hot, in Aradia’s case: her blood runs high, a hemospectrum propensity, and your skin sears at every point she’s touched you.) (There’s also a fire inside this girl, a drive and determination to get through the worst of what the universe wants to hurl at her.) (She’s just fucking hot, okay, you need to get through the parentheticals and get to the point.)

The point, right now, is struggling out of the pathetic remnants of your suit and simultaneously moving down her body. It would be harder to coordinate if she weren’t actively trying to divest you of all your clothes and then some. By the time your tongue traces the slope of her breast, you’re pretty much as naked as she is, with some errant scratches on your arms and hips and your boxers still preserving your dignity. Looking for something to grab, she finds your ass next, and you might make a noise kind of (exactly) like a moan into the underside of her ta-tas. Well, two can play at that game, and you goose her right back.

She has the best ass. In the entire world. You have studies to prove this. (Your sample size is two, but still, one hundred percent of the people you’ve surveyed agree that Aradia Megido has the most bomb badonkadonk this side of paradox space.) The best part about her rear is the parts it’s connected to. From here, your fingertips trace lewd patterns up in the small of her back. They dart down and dig into the backs of her thighs, where curve meets leg.

And your mouth, your mouth never stops moving downwards, lips tracing the muscles of her stomach (and they flutter against your slight touch), tongue slipping to catch an errant water droplet that’s stubbornly clinging to her hip. “Ah,” Aradia says, and when you look up, she’s staring right back down at you, her half-lidded fiery gaze outright challenging you to keep going.

Like you needed challenged. You wanted to grab her thighs like this since she walked through the door. Fuck, they’re everything thighs should be, soft and pliant and thick and plush and your fingertips sink in easily when you nudge them apart. Under all the cushion, you can feel her muscles cording, tension winding them tight, and she quivers against your hold. You create a path of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against her hips and she rolls them against your teeth. Jesus, she must want it bad.

Not showing, though.

(the thing that really confused you about troll ladies for the longest time was the beetle wing looking things they had protecting their cooters, and even when Aradia explained the evolutionary purpose you didn’t want to wait for them to spring open before you could frolic on your vacation in the Shangri-fucking-La of her intimate bits, your time powers and infinite patience be damned)

Beneath that plating you can nearly smell how turned on she is. When you look up, she’s biting her lip. Is she concentrating to keep them closed? What a tease. Must want you to work for it. Fine. You’ll put in your eight hours a day, with an hour lunch and two union-mandated fifteen-minute breaks, to make an honest living out of persuading her parts to come out and play. You’re gonna work so hard you’ll need taxes taken out of your paycheck. Your management model is gonna get ISO 9001 fucking certified, quality-tested, consumer-approved.

You blow a raspberry into Aradia’s thigh.

Okay, that one you couldn’t help. They’re just so fucking succulent. She squirms at that, and you have to pin down her hips with your hands to keep her from kneeing you in the face. When you follow that up with a bite, though, she’s not laughing any more. You can hear her breathing, exhales heavy, and you nip your way north on Thighway 69 before you reach your exit.

Or, well, sort of. You run your tongue soft against the skin between her legs, tracing the edges of her plating, and she gasps in air, holds it behind her teeth like letting it back out is a show of weakness. When you plant a sucking kiss at the nadir, she makes a noise you can only describe as a whirr, and you can _hear_ her toes curling in the sheets already. By the time you lick at the seam in her scarab, it’s already easing open. Pretty soon it’s going to split into two perfect halves. A tiger’s head made of sand is going to rise from the desert. A true diamond in the rough. Open motherfucking sesame, let’s get to this magic lamp—

Whoomp, there it is. Downtown Megidosville is open for business.

Does that mean you move right in and set up shop? Of course not. First you have to gauge customer demand, do a few market tests, put out some massive advertising, and only then do you build a storefront and light up the neon sign in the window. Customer demand—you take a deep breath in through your nose and have to muffle your exhaled moan in the softness of her stomach; your hands clench on her thighs. Saint Agnes and all she holds holy, the way she smells makes your mouth water.

Market tests—you doodle your fingertips up so you can touch her and they come away wine-stained. Her seedflaps are slick and hot and pulsing. You try again, drawing your fingers through her folds, parting her red seas, and she pushes her hips into your hand and humps against your palm. Her legs fall further open and your pants are far too tight.

Massive advertising—you surge up her body, biting at her collarbone, her throat, and she tosses back her head obligingly for you. One hand is full of her thick, luscious hair, the other massaging broad, insistent circles into her slit. (You’re cheating a little, your thigh behind some of the pressure.)

As always, you are physically incapable of shutting up, and your mouth does a wonderful job of keeping itself busy while your brain is completely derailed, off the tracks, conductor asleep, thousands mildly inconvenienced in a multi-car pileup. “I wanna bleach your bones and articulate your skeleton and keep you forever,” tumbles out before you realize it, the kinds of thoughts you can’t even articulate to yourself when you’re fully cognizant.

Aradia’s eyelashes tremble; her thighs clamp hard around your hand. (You feel so, so lucky to have found a chick that not only lets you keep your formaldehyde collection on permanent display around the apartment, but also thinks what you just said is the epitome of seduction.) You run your tongue along the delicate shell of her ear, suck on the tip of a horn, and she trills.

“I wanna wear your color like war paint, I wanna rip open your chest and climb up inside there and curl up around your blood pusher and never come back out, I wanna—” (you’re a little breathless, torn between pouring words into her ear and sucking marks into the place just below her earlobe) “wanna raid your lost ark—”

“Dave,” she says, a warning or a blessing (you can’t quite tell).

“Dive into your clam pool,” you suggest instead, mouth like lightning strikes, never the same place twice when it hits the slope of her shoulder. “Drink up your juicebox.”

Aradia brings her hand up to your mouth and forcibly shuts it to keep you from getting any stupider. Her claws prickle against your cheekbone. The way she stares at you, it’s like she thinks she can set you on fire. Still locking eyes with you, she shoves your face away from her flesh, pushes you down her body.

You can take a hint. Time to set up shop.

Instead of talking, you use your mouth to plant sucking kisses between her hipbones, arcing further down with every pass. When you finally, finally press your lips against the apex of her vertical smile, her hand clenches in your hair, pulling it at the root. And you are so. Fucking. Hard. You have to press your pelvis into the mattress to discourage any fireworks before the Fourth of July. Your wet hand smears down her leg and she quivers.

Mouth-to-muff resuscitation is a go, this is ground control, you are cleared for munch.

A long, slow lick from bottom to top and you’re already wearing her thighs as earmuffs. You pause for a swirl around that—that button place at the front (she calls it her cilia, whatever that means, but basically it’s a friendly little clitoris analog with a mini-Koosh-ball texture, because things about alien pussy apparently have to be weird and freaky just to remind you you’re not fucking a human) and you can feel her clench against your chin. Her horns knock back against the headboard when you stroke her with your tongue.

You press your mouth against her, kissing her lips, and now she’s actively trying to crush your skull with her gams. Hot, and not entirely a bad way to go, but you’re not looking to die at the moment, so you bring your hands down to her knees, hook your thumbs into the soft indents in the back, and hold her open. Her other hand joins the first in your hair, claws threatening your scalp.

Second best way to go: drowning in her girl goo. It’s slippery, viscous, a syrup so concentrated it’s more salt than sugar, more bitter-sour than sweet, cranberry juice concentrate and you are so thirsty. And there is a lot of it. She’s so wet she puts Astroglide to shame. And she smells as good as she tastes—so close now that it’s insufflating your lungs, seeping into your pores.

It’s like a meditative experience. You are praying in her temple. You are singing hymns into her narthex. You are whispering prayers at her sanctuary. You are preaching at her presbytery. And when you finally plunge into her chancel to kneel at her altar, she rewards you with a transubstantiation, a trickle of wine pouring into your mouth.

That’s one.

(one afternoon the two of you spent hours like this, your arms tangled in her legs and your head at the joinder of her thighs, dilating your shared aspect, giving her a thousand kisses, then a hundred, another thousand, a second hundred, a thousand more, adding a hundred, _nox est perpetua una dormienda_ , until you lost the running tally of how many licks it takes to get to the center of her tootsie pop and you had to start counting again, and again, and again)

You suck at the soft petals of her, purse your lips around her cilia, and she rocks up against your face. You’re not about to stop her. By now your entire face below the eyes is fucking coated with a sheen of Essence d’Aradia and you are happier than a woodpecker in a fucking lumberyard. Her core temp is so high, higher than yours, and her pussy’s _hot_ , a furnace against your face. She melts in your mouth, not in your hand, bittersweet with a candy coating that makes you want to devour her.

Her movements hitch and you dive in deeper, jaw moving, lips slipping, tongue spearing into her holiest of holies like the seraph into Saint Teresa. The pull of her channel on your mouth you can only describe as a _swallow_ , like her cunt is hungry and wants you deeper than you can go. You stroke her from the inside, again, _again_ , and she rips the fucking sheets with her claws.

This one’s going to be harder than the last one. Making love to Aradia Megido is like climbing a fucking mountain. She has these little peaks that she’ll reach, but she’ll never quite drop from that height. There’s several base camps for your trek up, time to adjust to the altitude, but the journey continues, and her pace for the ascent is brutal and demanding. More than once you’ve gotten a nosebleed (most of the time from her reflexively kneeing you in the face) and it always ends with you gasping for breath. Fortunately, after so many summits of Mount Megido, you know the secrets to the trails, and the scenery has never lost its natural beauty.

You grab for her free hand and she laces her fingers through yours, her grip so white-knuckled you can feel your joints grinding together; her claws pierce five perfect holes in the back of your hand. Her thighs frame your shoulders, shaking at your ministrations. When you take your mouth away from her entrance, she rises from the bed to try and follow you before you start sucking at her cilia again. That thing loves you, man, little fronds saying hi to your tongue and working with you to make her feel good.

Of course, that’s not all you have in store. If she wanted your tongue in her that badly, she’s going to love it if you give her more. You tease her with a fingertip and she drips on you like you just pressed on a sponge that was soaked in boiling water. When you ease a finger inside her velvet glove, she makes a noise you’ve learned is Alternian for “yes please very much.”

(she’s built for the slow tapered ease of a bulge, needs the bluntness of your fingers before she can even think about your fuckstick, but she loves the slow simmer of it, the thrust and not the thrash, how deep she can feel you)

Like this, you can feel her _ripple_ around you. Your hand is wet all the way down to the wrist and she won’t stop drooling on you. Crooking your fingertip forward gets her to chirrup. Like a goddamn cricket. And it’s the cutest goddamn thing.

(you remember that sound, sifted through the thin wall that separates the two bedrooms, taming the trunkbeast with your knuckles stuffed between your teeth to cram down your own noises as Sollux dipped his stinger in her honey)

You try again and a tremor runs the full length of her spine, ending in her clutch. Fuck, she’s close. You cup your tongue around her tip, stroke what you can’t get in your mouth with the pad of your thumb, thrust in her, and that’s it, that’s done it, she twists on the bed like she wants to get away and push closer at the same time and a gush of genetic fluid runs down your arm and puddles on her bath towel.

That’s two.

(four miles away and still at work, you’re sure Sollux Captor gets a troll boner and doesn’t quite know why)

You massage her through this one, easing out of her and mouthing at her slow and calm until the quake in her thighs subsides. She sighs. You draw back. Her mouth is open, wet, and sweet—just like the rest of her. The hand in your hair relaxes; she rubs at the place where your horns would be if you were a troll. She smiles and you feel anointed.

Then she clamps her thighs down around you, twists your head, and wrestles you onto your back so she can sit on your face.

Your dick is harder than the Texas bar exam.

Her legs are quivering, but she holds herself above you carefully, mindful of your need to breathe. You take two magnificent handfuls of ass and start up on her again, a steady cadence of your tongue, a predictable pattern of where it’ll go next. She helps you by rubbing up against your chin, keeping her quim close. God, she’s at her best when she just takes charge. The only thing that could possibly make this better for you is if she were ghosting her whip across your chest, occasionally flicking the tip of it against your bare legs (your cock pulses and you whine into her). You don’t need any more encouragement to bust a nut in your shorts—the taste and scent and feel of her is more than enough.

You slurp at her eagerly, messily, and with every pass of your tongue she comes more and more undone. She’s nothing but breathy cries, tangled hair, trembling limbs, and you just want to make her wring herself dry. You delve into her again and you nudge the bridge of your nose against her cilia and breathe her in and wriggle and she goes nuts, chittering like a cicada. You write the alphabet into her with the point of your tongue, tracing letters, practicing your cursive, and she gives you the words right back, little gifts like “please” and “more” and wordless vowel sounds.

Your fingers dig into her plush rump. Curl further in. You hold her apart, fingertips getting closer and closer, and then (she’s the dirtiest little girl, when you first discovered this trick she promptly drenched your face with a bucketload) ghost over her mudhole. Mission accomplished: she screams, her slot trying to pull your tongue out of your mouth, and she flutters around your face. A more deliberate swipe and she’s actually rutting against you, fucking your face for everything she’s worth. By the time you start a slow press into her, her movements are small little hitches, her body locking up—and then she dissolves into shudders, flooding your mouth, coming so hard it gets in your hair.

That’s three.

Literally three, because when Aradia stops treating your head like a walnut and her thighs like a nutcracker, you can hear the door to the apartment slamming shut. “Shit, it’s the boyfriend,” she whispers conspiratorially down at you, then bursts into giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Sollux calls from the hallway.

“Welcome home, donglord,” you yell back cheerfully, then blow a very loud, wet _phbhthhhbpthttbht_ straight into Aradia’s madge. She squeals and nearly punches you in the head.

“How dare you,” he says, his voice getting closer. “You will address me as Doctor Dong, I didn’t spend three sweeps in dong medical school to be called _lord_ of anything.” This is the part when he walks in on the two of you. You love watching this, and so you prop yourself up on your elbows to see it better.

Sure enough, he’s just standing in the doorway, taking it all in—the rust on your face, the raw stench of sex, the rampant nudity, how soaked she is, how hard you are. Sollux, binary as he is, has one of two reactions when this happens. He’s either completely disgusted, feels left out, and sulks for two days, or he’s apocalyptically turned on, instant wriggly, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

“You started without me,” he says first, a pout in his voice. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he whistles “holy shit” through his teeth. Hell yes, today it’s Door Number Two. You know why it gets to him, too. The freak gets off on duality and he’s got it here in spades. (Or, well, hearts. Whatever. Fuck quadrants. The two of them agree with you on that much.) He’s got a human and a troll, a boy and a girl, and the way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s trying to choose between two lollipops and he doesn’t know which one he should start licking first.

(please let it be you please let it be you please let it be you)

He steps closer. Runs a hand along your ankle, up your leg, and your hair stands on end where he’s touched you, static electricity along your skin. Your breath catches and you whisper a needy “fuck” into Aradia’s skin when he skips over your groin entirely, opting for your hip, your stomach, your breastbone. In a second you’re going to need his psionics for defibrillation, because your heart stops when he takes away his touch.

Instead, the dork just slaps Aradia’s ass, which pushes her down onto your face again, and you gurgle a little before she remembers not to suffocate you. “Hey you,” you catch her murmur. From your vantage point, when he kisses her it just looks like their chins got into a fight, but you recognize the hitch in her breathing from when you’ve put your own tongue into her mouth.

He tries to comb a hand through her hair and it gets stuck after three inches. “Are you being selfish?” he asks her instead, cradling her head to his.

“A little,” she admits. “But he likes it.”

(which is admittedly true, exploring Aradia Megido’s womanly chasms is one of your favorite spelunking activities, but currently you’re in the middle of a medical condition usually caused by a diamond-shaped blue pill and you’d really like to get that alleviated by the M.D. in the room)

He kisses her again, then takes his hand out of her curls and spanks the other cheek. “Get off him, I need to make sure he’s still breathing.” It shouldn’t turn you on this much that they’re talking about you like you’re not here listening to their every word.

She steps off from straddling your face and takes all of you in and she actually winces. (Excuse her, you’re fucking handsome painted by her troll jizz, thank you very much.) To fix it, she grabs her bath towel and scrubs the worst of it off of your face. “See, he’s fine!” Aradia insists.

“I almost died,” you croak out. Your tongue doesn’t quite remember how to move when it’s inside your mouth as opposed to just hanging out there. “It was horrible.” And yet you can’t stop the goofy grin that’s splitting your face.

“Get over here and let me see for myself,” Sollux says before grabbing both of your knees. He pulls you closer to him, your feet now dangling off the edge of the bed, before he grabs your chin, pulls you up, and leans down to kiss you. Soft, surprisingly chaste, licking along your lips even as you part them to let him if that’s what he wants. His hand comes down to cup around the bulge in your boxers and you make a disgusting whimpering noise. “Fuck, you’re a mess,” he whispers appreciatively into your mouth, pulling your lip between his teeth.

You’re not about to argue with him. Your body right now is a coiled, tight line of _please_. He kisses you like you’re worth taking his time, eating out your mouth like you were just mouthing at Aradia. Under better circumstances you would melt into the mattress, but this just makes you _ache_. You don’t want to rush him but you don’t know why he’s being so patient with you.

(doom is etched into his bones and he feels like he never has enough time so it’s especially appropriate that he has the two of you to ground him, give him what he needs, force him to slow down and appreciate what he has instead of racing for an inevitable finish)

“Oh, cut it out,” Aradia whines, coming to your rescue.

Sollux cuts it out. Immediately. (If there’s one thing the two of you have learned, it’s to listen to Miss Megido when she puts on her bossy boots.) “Let me fuck him,” he says (doesn’t ask, but announces), looking to her for approval, and your bones catch fire.

(the first time it was just you and him was your first time like that, him holding your wrists at the small of your back as his bulge pushed thick into you, ending with a series of bite marks tracing your vertebrae smeared with honey-gold and an orgasm that left you shattered and terrified and exhilarated)

Aradia crawls towards you on the bed, curling into your side. Her beetle wings haven’t closed yet; there’s rust smearing along the insides of her legs. When she nods, her chin bumps against your shoulder. Someone sighs in relief at her answer (you’re loath to assign blame). Sollux plants a hand on your chest, shoves, and Aradia catches you when you fall back to the mattress.

Your mouth blooms, hot and sensitive, as he keeps kissing you. The deeper he goes, the dizzier you get. His tongue curls around yours and Aradia exhales hard, a strangled _hnnnnnn_ that thrums through you. She reaches down and he reaches over and each of them gets a nipple and pinches and Sollux has to basically knee you in the balls to get your hips back down on the bed. To make sure you’re not going anywhere, he puts his palm at your abs and they tighten under his touch.

(they’re fascinated by the things that make you human: the downy hairs on your arms and legs, the coarse curls pointing down from your navel—your navel itself, your nipples, your balls, your foreskin, and they linger over those differences like they could memorize you with fingers and lips and tongues)

Aradia sticks her tongue in your ear. Sollux’s mouth slips; when it hits your skin next, it’s a savage bite from his blunted fangs, right into the place where shoulder meets neck. Your entire body jolts like you just woke up from a falling dream but they’re still here, holding you, making sure you don’t fall (or at least, not without them pushing you). His tongue follows his teeth, a strange sort of sorry. He climbs up onto the bed and his thigh moves between your legs and the lid of your skull blows off the top of your head.

How is this asshole still dressed. Your hands are shaking, your fingers nearly numb, but you’re determined to unbutton this stupid white shirt, with its dumb pocket protector and skinny black tie. What a fucking nerd. When you tear away the strip of silk, the small part of your brain that’s still functioning at an optimal level thinks of about twelve perverted uses for it all at once; before you can get distracted, Aradia yanks it out of your hand and throws it into the corner of the room. You’ve forgotten how buttons work.

Sollux beats you to the punchline. Apparently he didn’t love this shirt, because red and blue crackles at the seams before it falls apart around his waist. “Good point,” he says to your unstated request. Four hands, two by two, pink on grey, work at his belt, button, fly, and this guy is built like a coathanger but he still makes stripping look irresistible.

He’s not out yet, but he’s close, his bulgeslit splitting at the seam and showing a hint of the gold member inside. You reach out, worm a fingertip in there, and Sollux seizes like he was electrocuted. When you rub at what you can reach, he resists for all of about three seconds before his bulge springs out. It’s basically a tentacle attached to his crotch, with a rippled texture and a strong grip. Yes, he does have control over it. Yes, it drives you insane. He wraps it around your finger tightly, too tightly. “Fine.” You’ll stop messing around.

Aradia’s hand slips down your chest. Her claws twang the waistband of your boxers. By the time the two of them get you naked, your knob is shining hard, flushed pink at the tip. Sollux swirls a fingertip under the corona and it pulses. By the time he palms your balls, your hands are in his hair, fisting around his horns and wrestling him down so you can push your tongue into his mouth. You are not fucking around right now. Well, you are, but not—yeah.

He kisses you honey-trickle slow and sweet and you are so hungry right now. His hand circles around your pump-action jizz rifle and pulls off, lubed by your pre. Aradia leans down, smears a bead of it around the tip, then takes her fingertip away, still connected to the head of your cock by a thin, glistening string. Then there’s a wet pop—she just. She sucked you off her finger. You want her to suck you off proper but you’ll jet down her throat if she does that and you don’t want this to be over yet.

Sollux’s bulge slides along the inside of your leg, honest and affectionate. Honestly, the thing kind of feels like a really long tongue, like Sollux is licking his way up your thigh and still molesting your mouth with his mouth at the same time. The tip of it fondles your sac, squeezes at it a little, and you choke on your own spit. “Breathe,” Aradia coos into your ear, then kisses her way down your throat. Her hands are firebrands on your chest.

Then the bulge worms further back, traces your perineum, and finally makes itself at home at your asshole.

Holy fucking shit. Sollux is basically eating you out with something that’s about ten times better than a tongue, hot and wet and passing glacially slow over where you’re most sensitive. “Fuck, Sol,” you mumble into his mouth, pressing your forehead against his and closing your eyes (it’s too much, too good, too _too_ ). “Oh, fuck…”

The flat of it slithers across you again, slicking you from tailbone to taint, and you swear you can hear the schlicking sound it makes. Or—no, that’s—holy Mary, Megido’s jilling off to this. She’s watching and she’s turned on and you’ve never felt safer than when you’re held by her gaze. “Don’t stop,” she whispers for you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assures the two of you. He teases you with the sides of his claws strumming along your ribcage, the parts not sharp enough to break skin, and your nerve endings sing for him. His crotch rocket licks at you, over and over and over, and you can feel every articulation in the muscle. Your butt fucking _quivers_. With each pass he presses against you a little more insistently and you can already feel yourself giving in for him.

(you refuse to let his fingers anywhere near your delicate chocolate starfish because you don’t want it missing any limbs, trolls can digitifuck each other until kingdom come, they’re more resilient than weak fleshy humans, but if those claws even touched your insides you would get eviscerated and that’s not how you want to go, so he has to do it this way instead, tonguefuck you with his bone bulge until you let him in)

He circles around you, the spiral making you dizzy, and you’re sure he’s about to press in, relaxing yourself for it, but he surprises you, tracing hazy patterns instead. Fucking copycat, he’s writing the Alternian ayembedt into your body, but fuck if it isn’t a great party trick, making your legs quake with the tease of it. “Sollux,” Aradia warns him, voice cracking through the room like a whip, and her hand comes down to steady one of your thighs.

“Ara,” he says back, then chirrs, burying his forehead in your shoulder, the tips of his horns scraping the underside of your jaw. The point of his bulge presses, more, just a little more, just enough, so gradual, breaching you, entering— “Fuck,” he whispers into your skin, slipping past that first ring of muscle, and he bites the word into the ball of your shoulder, your blood welling hot in his mouth.

“Oh,” you say, “oh, _oh_ ,” as he worms his way further into you, undulating in slow circles to keep you relaxed so more of his bulge can fit. Your hands close around his upper arms, leaving perfectly finger-sized bruises that go all the way down to his bones.

Aradia coos condescendingly, kissing you from upside-down and stroking your tongue with her own. When she pulls back, she shivers. “You taste good,” and your brain liquefies and pours out your ears, because she just got a hint of herself and she’s more aroused than ever (if the louder _wet_ sound is any indication). “You look good,” she coos. “You’re so good, Dave—“

“Dia,” you cut her off, because if she keeps talking you’re going to climax. You love the way Sollux’s bulge squirms its way into you, fighting for every millimeter but never pushing you farther than you’re ready to go. He could go a lot harder, drive into you all at once, keep his bulge rigid and _fuck_ you, but he nudges, he teases, he tempts, the fucking prick, this huge tentacle-tongue-thing splitting you open.

(between the both of you, Sollux’s slurred nickname and your divine diminutive, it’s like she’s a whole person)

He mouths along your collarbone and you push it into his mouth. She smears her lips down the side of your throat, and the two of them meet in the middle. Their kiss is too intimate—you have to close your eyes, you’re not meant to see that, but then he kisses you like he kissed her, she kisses you like she kissed him, and you’re finally starting to lose the distinction between your bodies, giving in to feel.

“Shit,” Sollux mumbles, and his bulge pulses further, each grooved ring of it a new texture against your entrance, god it feels so good. “Wish I had two of these.” (Wishes he had two of everything, the greedy bastard.) “Wanna pail you—pail you both at once—”

(he can, but not like this—the double-jointed, bifurcated-tongue boy wonder has a dual-core processor, the full kit and caboodle, bulge _and_ seedflaps, two, binary, just like the rest of him—you tried it once, you in his ham wallet and Aradia on his wurst, but it ended sticky and unsatisfying for everyone involved and the three of you honestly had more fun in the shower you took together afterwards)

Aradia sucks in a breath through her teeth, lets it out slow in that drawn-out cricket sound. Under you, her arm tenses, relaxes—still doing maintenance on her undercarriage. “I could,” she offers, and your swizzle stick twitches.

“Please,” he slurs out, the sibilant sound caught on one of his fangs.

Is this some troll telepathy lowbloods have but you don’t? How does he know what she wants? “Wanna clue me in on—oh fuck, _Sol_ ,” the tip of his tentacle just hit right up against your hot spot and like the devious asshole he is, now he’s deliberately trying _not_ to touch it.

Sollux pulls back. That smug look on his face makes you want to punch him, and then he opens you up more, even more, and your hands clench at his shoulders instead, nails digging into his sharkskin. There’s not much more of him to take but you want all of it right now, it’s so much, too much, the burnstretch, the empty in you only he can fill, the ache that only gets worse, hollow in your chest.

Aradia reaches out for one of your hands. Twines her fingers with yours, then brings your knuckles to her lips and kisses them gently. You throw your head back and voice something that scares you with how much it needs, eyes shut, teeth clenched. Weight shifts on the mattress—a warm body presses up against your side. Pressure digs in just under your ribs, first on one side, then the other. Aradia’s hands are back on your chest, bracing you, bracing herself, keeping you pinned, holding you down to earth when you feel like you might dissipate into a thousand million overwhelmed fragments.

She lowers herself onto you, fluttering around you, and you’re dying.

It burns, all of it, their bodies inhumanly hot against yours, _burns_ but doesn’t _hurt_. Aradia bows her head and her hair licks along your skin like hellfire. Sollux gets his mouth, sloppy and uncoordinated, against her throat, and his hips sink further forward. You take the rest of him like you were made to do it, residual friction smoothed over by the raw sensation of two trolls _trying to kill you_.

For a long moment (forty-nine seconds, two hundred eighty-six milliseconds) the three of you are still.

Aradia clenches around you instinctively but doesn’t try to move; she whimpers through a gritted-teeth smile as she gets used to the blunt feel of you. Sollux helps her adjust by getting a fingertip to her cilia, rubbing soft and sure. You want to push up, take even more of her than she can give, but her thighs are insistent around your waist, the weight of her pinning you to the bed. And it would mean Sollux would slip, and you don’t want to give up any of this fullness. Even though he’s trying to stay still, you can feel his heartbeat in his bulge; the tip of him twitches with the effort of holding himself back.

She rocks against you and gasps, her mouth falling open in an unrepentant grin; Sollux frames her movements with his hand at her hip. His bulge twists in you, torque dragging against where you’re most sensitive. And just like that, you’re getting fucked to within an inch of your life. Not hard, per se, just _thoroughly_ and _well_.

If having your tongue in Aradia’s fish taco was like going to church, having your sperm spigot in her dick sauna is like visiting the fucking Vatican. You are the goddamn pope of her wet purse. _Allahu akbar_ , motherfuckers, _hayya ‘ala s-ssalat_. (She feels so good you’re even _thinking_ in tongues.) The soft, slick heat of you pulls you in, keeps you steady. You feel like you’re back in the Land of Heat and Clockwork, nothing but molten lava and steel beams, and it feels like home.

Sollux’s bulge undulates in you, long sine waves of sensation that you feel nearly tangent to. He never pulls out—he never has to pull out, why would he fuck you like a human when he can thrash in you like this? He nudges Aradia on you, and he ripples in you, and he ends up orchestrating this massive crescendo of strings and horns and woodwinds that you can’t even hear over your own heartbeat in your ears. They’re effortlessly coordinated and making music with you, harmonizing their sex sounds with yours, syncopating your breaths.

Aradia’s never let go of your hand. She brings it to her mouth, bites down on her own knuckles to choke down a moan, and her fangs dig into your fingers as well. Sollux grabs at the other one, and Aradia whines, a wordless complaint that he just stopped rubbing her nub. Of course, that only means she grinds down on you harder, rutting it against your pubes. She’s rudely taking her pleasure from you and honestly, at this point, you’re just happy to be here. To be used. To be privileged enough to see this, be a part of this.

A spark ghosts over your shoulder. Oh, that’s what Sollux was doing—completing the circuit, grounding himself in you, on you. A more purposeful shock this time, the kind of static electricity that leaves your arm hair feeling singed, and you press your head back into the mattress and groan. It just means a more purposeful psionic piece wraps around your throat, crackling like a collar at your adam’s apple.

Oh, fuck.

Ohhhhhhh, _fuck_.

(at one point you took a time-out and sat both of them down and explained some human dynamics to them—Aradia, the dork, took some extensive notes and added them to her growing file on Earth sexual behavior, but Sollux had just looked bored, even though _apparently_ he was paying attention the whole goddamn time and waiting to surprise you with the very things you’d taught him)

A second ring circles around your head, under the base of your skull and splitting your fucking teeth—the asshole just gave you a cleave gag. A cleave gag and a collar. Fuck this certified 24-carat _piece of shit_. Aradia leans down (her angle changes; you can’t remember how lungs work) and gently lays her lips at the corner of your mouth and a _hng_ noise gets stuck in your throat.

Sollux’s bulge lashes in you, the liquid curl and flow of a whip on the backstroke. His thumb caresses over yours and you don’t know how to reconcile that with the rest of this. With every movement he puts pressure against your joy buzzer, then takes it away. Rubs up against it, then ignores it entirely. Aradia can definitely feel it, because with each pass, your cock throbs hot and heavy in her and she squeezes you in response. The tease of it is going to drive you insane and you can’t even _tell_ them that with plasma bondage rope in your mouth.

Aradia slips away from you. Her thighs are tense at your hips, her hands leaden on your chest. Then she seats herself back on you again and bleats out the cutest sound you’ve ever fucking heard as you slam back home. God, all you want to do is thrust into her, but Sollux’s bulge is skewering you, her body holding you down. It just means she has complete control over the tempo, pitch, volume, reverb as she starts to ride you. “Take pity on him,” she sighs, rolling against you on the downstroke.

“Thought that wath—” His lisp is back. He bites his lip in the middle of his sentence and the psionics flicker. Right now, he’s up to about 90% CPU, and if he keeps working this hard he’s going to blow. “Thought that was what we were doing,” he tries again, then pitches forward, collapsing onto Aradia’s back.

All three of you are pressed together, skin on skin on skin, on and in and around, sharing the air you breathe. Sollux’s hips twitch and you clench around him—yes, you want to say, please, want, now, need. His hand holds your face and you turn your cheek into the heat of his palm as he makes a shallow thrust.

It moves Aradia between the two of you and she bleats again, helpless. She’s so close now that every time her crev clenches it’s like she nearly ejects your trouser titan. “Honey—” (that’s what she calls him, so saccharine that just hearing it gives you tooth rot) “get the—the—”

You’re an evil son of a bitch and you don’t care who knows it. You hold her hand tight in yours; the other parts the space between her body and his, skimming down her torso column and scratching as you go. It gets her incoherent, but she’s still not quite there, ready to fall but still dancing on the edge. She’s such a hot, slippery mess that the entirety between her legs is slicked, so you meet almost no resistance when you nudge a fingertip against her waste chute.

Aradia screams, the sound high and piercing. “Bucket, I’m—Dave, oh,” she’s panting incoherent as you work in to the first knuckle, the second, to the base of your hand. Fuck, you can _feel_ yourself in her, and you rub against that thin wall between your finger and your fuckwand, and she starts shaking. Full-on shaking, whole body vibrating, and this time her snatch really does push you out.

The inseam of your foot is pressed against the rim of something cold—the pail they use, fuck, she’s gonna come, _really_ come, and you’re absurdly proud of helping her get there. Her back arches; Sollux rears back, takes her body with him, and holds her steady. You pull your finger out, grind the heel of your hand against her cilia, and there’s Old Faithful, a torrent spilling out of her, splashing against your fingers, dripping into the bucket with a tinny echo.

Sollux’s bulge in you makes this movement you can only call a cramp when he hears that sound. This time, when your collar and cleave flicker, they disappear entirely. Aradia slumps boneless onto you, breathing hard, but Sollux is panting even harder, _screwing_ into you, twisting and curling and pushing and pulling. God, you’re so close, so fucking close—

There, he digs the tip of his bulge into your prostate and the electricity that runs along your entire body might even be literal. You’re overheated, oversensitive, overwhelmed, and he ruthlessly spikes you higher, _higher_ , and then the floor drops out from under you. Aradia kisses your jaw lazy and satisfied when you give yourself over to them, humming a little as drops of your frothy rocket sauce land on the backs of her legs. “Good,” she tells you, and the syllable of praise just keeps it going until you think your fingers and toes might never fully uncurl.

Your ears are ringing when Sollux finally pulls out. You barely register when he falls to his knees, buzzing like a fucking vibrator, straddling the pail, two fingers jammed in his cunt, other hand pulling his cock, and then he drenches himself, pouring into the bucket just like Aradia did. She trembles at the sound, little orgasm aftershocks, and holds you closer; her claws draw blood when she’s careless like that, but you can’t find a single quark in you that still gives a shit.

Everything squelches when Sollux falls across the two of you on the bed. You gurgle, wind knocked out of you, and the two worn-out trolls elbow each other off of you. Jesus, your crotch looks like a disaster area. The front looks like a menstruating puma very eagerly backed into your battle rammer. The back looks like someone took a long and enthusiastic piss right up your asshole. Sollux has honey all over his hands, some even seeping between his legs. Aradia pretty much had her little troll period all down her thighs.

“Fuck,” you say articulately, and Sollux lets out a huff you know would be a laugh if he had more energy. Aradia snuggles into your side and reaches for her bath towel. If it wasn’t ruined before, it certainly will be by the time all of you use it to clean off. (You keep telling them to buy black towels. They never listen to you. Their love liquor is water-soluble, but it still looks like a nightmare.)

After Aradia towels off, Sollux snatches the thing out of her hands and wrings his fingers clean, one by one. “The fuck did I walk in on, anyway?” he asks you.

“She—” Your voice cracks. Your mouth was too dry. You swallow, try again. “She was wearing those shorts.” It sounds like a plea deal. Sollux just nods sagely. He knows what you’re talking about. Without you having to ask, he starts wiping you down. (They might ride you hard, but they never put you away wet.)

Next to you, Aradia yawns. “He distracted me,” she maintains.

“Bullshit I distracted you.” That’s a record refraction time. Five minutes and your mouth is already back online. “You were the one who told me to get in your bed, you wanton strumpet.”

The towel squishes in Sollux’s hands before he lobs it in the general direction of the laundry hamper. “You should have waited,” he mutters. Angry? Resentful? Sour? Then, “I wouldn’t have minded seeing a little more of that.”

“Now I want wontons,” she says sleepily into your shoulder.

“Food later,” Sollux promises. “Presents now.”

“Presents?” Oh, shit. Whose birthday did you forget? Is it their anniversary? Your internal clock may be precise as all fuck, but that doesn’t mean you take notice of the meaning.

“Calm down, pail scrapings.” Sollux actually pets you like you’re a fucking dog, and damn him, it actually calms you down. “It’s for you.”

“Why?” They don’t need to spend any money on you. You’ve told them that multiple times. You may try to stay frugal in weird ways, but you’re keenly aware that you have a lot more net resources than they do. (Thanks, LOHAC stock exchange and the mysterious translation to real-world currency post-SBURB.)

Aradia doesn’t answer your question. At least, she doesn’t answer it directly. But when she brings her hand in front of your face, you can see her pinching something between thumb and forefinger. You take it from her for closer inspection—it’s a ring. Kind of beat up, actually. The gold is hammered, so pure and soft it practically scratches under your fingernail. Whatever stone is set in here isn’t cut or polished, just has jagged chips taken out of it to make it a little more refractive. “I found this,” she says quietly, “and we wanted you to have it.”

“Found it?” So that’s why it looks like it’s seen a pawn shop or ten. It’s too big for your ring finger; you settle for your middle instead.

“Mmhmm!” she chirps. “It was the Turkish excavation, the one that gave us the lead on where to find Helen’s crown, and they said I could keep something as a souvenir.” (You remember that excavation. She was gone for a week and Sollux wouldn’t stop moping. Not even your service-mark Strider blowjobs could cheer him up, and that’s saying something.) “I thought of you. It’s a real ruby, we had it checked.”

A ruby. Set in gold. “Isn’t this ten different kinds of illegal?”

“Probably.” She just shrugs. “The museum never asked for it, though, so I think it’s okay.”

You like the set of it on your hand. It’s unassuming, with a raw kind of grace to it. Not too heavy or cumbersome. “This might have been Helen’s,” you muse out loud. “I might be wearing a ring that graced the hand of a woman whose gorgeous ass started a decade-long war and inspired two epic poems.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Sollux checks you, headbutting your shoulder. “It’s just a little something.”

Little something, your ass. This means a lot to both of them. “You’ve been holding onto this for a while,” you point out.

“You hadn’t been living with us for a year yet,” she says back. The groove of her gear slots firmly into your own, gives it a little spin, and everything smooths itself out. That’s the date you couldn’t quite ping. You stick a flag in it, set an internal reminder for a year from now (thirty one million, five hundred fifty-six thousand, nine hundred fifty-two seconds).

Right this second, though, your stomach growls. You didn’t have a chance to eat before Aradia got home from work. “Did someone say something about wontons?”

Sollux just groans, reaching off the side of the bed for his pants. “I’ll drive, Aradia double-parked right in front of your scuttlebuggy.” You can feel Aradia’s grin against your shoulder.

(in two hours the three of you will have a heated discussion over Cantonese food over which Avenger is best Avenger, which will inevitably lead to Aradia winning no matter which one she picks this time, and the three of you will fall asleep huddled on the couch while the bluray player skips on the Iron Man 3 scene selection menu)


End file.
